The Cafe Camille sounds posh, and looking in the window one can see France-inspired clothing and fashion prints; once inside, though, the cafe is just another greasy spoon, complete with mismatched coffee mugs already on the tables.
The atmosphere was a little like going into Aunt Martha's attic to see what treasures she might have--or, rather, like batty old Aunt Martha decided to serve coffee in her attic. While I didn't see actual dust, the place sort of resonated with the need for a good dusting.
What Camille had going for it was the local flavor, of which we got an earful as we listened to a long-and-loud-winded conversation regarding elections local and national and what was quite possible some juicy local gossip, only we couldn't blow our cover by actually stopping all conversation and craning our necks to hear the scoop.
Oh, the sandwich. It was a sandwich, and it fit the basic description of a Reuben: rye bread? Check. Some form of corned beef? Check. And so on.
The bread was really thin, and I couldn't taste any caraway. The sandwich was heavy on the kraut, which I found delightful, and the dressing was superb. At the time, I found the Reuben a bit greasy.
Three hours later, I found myself revising that description to 'greasy enough to cause it to haunt me and the husband for the rest of the day.' I'll try to be delicate: you don't want to eat the Camille's Reuben and then be stuck in a car with anyone for the rest of the day. You have been warned.